The silence between us is heavy but not uncomfortable.
I find myself studying him as I work.
The strong line of his jaw.
The way his muscles flex under my touch.
The scars that mark his body, evidence of a violent life.
“How did you get this one?” I trace a long scar across his abdomen, old and faded.
“Knife fight when I was nineteen.” His eyes follow my finger. “The other guy didn’t walk away.”
“And this?” I touch a circular scar on his shoulder.
“Bullet. Three years ago.”
I move to the cuts on his arms, cleaning each one carefully.
Some are shallow, barely more than scratches.
Others are deep enough to need stitches. “These should be sewn up.”
“They’ll heal.”
“They’ll scar.”
“I have plenty of those already.” He catches my hand again, but this time his touch is gentle. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Taking care of me. After everything I’ve done to you.”
I don’t have a good answer. I should hate him. Should want him to suffer. But seeing him like this, vulnerable and hurting, I can’t summon that hatred. “I don’t know,” I admit. “Maybe because someone should.”
His thumb brushes across my knuckles, and heat floods through me.
I pull my hand away and reach for the bandages, needing to focus on something other than the way his touch makes me feel.
I wrap his ribs first, my fingers brushing against his skin as I wind the gauze around his torso.
He’s warm, solid, and I’m acutely aware of how close we are. How small the towel is. How easy it would be to lean in and kiss him.
The thought horrifies me.
This man kidnapped me.
Forced me to marry him.
Showed me photos of my father’s execution.
I shouldn’t want to kiss him.
Shouldn’t want anything from him except my freedom.
But my traitorous body doesn’t care about should or shouldn’t.
I finish with his ribs and move to his arms, bandaging the deeper cuts. My towel slips slightly and I catch it before it falls, but not before Mikhail’s eyes drop to my chest.
